


I Just Called: a Bridget Jones Fic

by eggsbenni221



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary - Helen Fielding
Genre: F/M, Holiday, Humor, Love, Romance, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 07:22:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1183468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eggsbenni221/pseuds/eggsbenni221
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>***WARNING***MATB PLOT SPOILERS***in which Bridget's Valentine's Day doesn't go quite according to plan—because it's Bridget. (Really hard to summarize without spoiling the surprise!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Just Called: a Bridget Jones Fic

**Author's Note:**

> I got the idea for this story while reading The First Phone call from Heaven by Mitch Albom. This is also my first time attempting to write Mr Wallaker's character. I hope I've done him justice. His voice doesn't yet speak to me as clearly as Mark's, bless him.

I Just Called: a Bridget Jones Fic  
By Eggsbenni221  
Words: 1800  
Rating: T  
***WARNING! MATB SPOILERS!*** (put here on the off-chance that there are fans who may not have read the third book, or would rather not know what happens).  
Summary: in which Bridget's Valentine's Day doesn't go quite according to plan—because it's Bridget. (Really hard to summarize without spoiling the surprise!)

Disclaimer: not my characters. Thanks to Ms. Fielding for creating them.

Author's Note: I got the idea for this story while reading The First Phone call from Heaven by Mitch Albom. This is also my first time attempting to write Mr Wallaker's character. I hope I've done him justice. His voice doesn't yet speak to me as clearly as Mark's, bless him.

"I'm already there. Don't make a sound. I'm the beat in your heart. I'm the moonlight shining down. I'm the whisper in the wind, and I'll be there till the end. Can you feel the love that we share-I'm already there."- Lone Star, "I'm Already There"

 

**14 February**

  
1.00AM: Ugh. Cannot sleep. Feeling horribly mixed up and confused. Is Valentine's Day tomorrow (or today, I suppose, technically). It seems strange to think that when I was single, I used to always think that Valentine's Day was ridiculous commercialized excuse for rationalizing excessive consumption of chocolate (as if any woman needs to rationalize chocolate. Hmph). Then I found Mark, and somehow forgot about refusal to buy into capitalist commercial appropriation of love by greeting card and candy companies. Then of course there was the first Valentine's Day after Mark was killed, which I spent buried under blankets, sobbing and snuggling the children and letting Billy rub his chocolate-smeared cheek against mine.  
Now it's my first Valentine's Day with Scott, and I'm so grateful to have him to love, but there's still this part of my heart—the part that will always belong to Mark—that wishes I could close my eyes and believe that when I open them again, everything will be like it was when we were together. Oh, Mark, I'm so sorry, and I know I'm just being stupid and if you were here, you'd just tell me it's ridiculous to be sorry for something for which I'm completely blameless. Then again, if you were here, I wouldn't even be having these thoughts. Fuck. Am crying. Will try to sleep.

2.15AM: Mark, if you're out there somewhere, if you're listening, please know that I'm never, ever going to stop loving you, no matter how much I love Scott. It seems unfair to say that I'll never love him as much as I did you, because that's not entirely true. I mean, I don't love him any more than I do you. It's just…Bloody Hell! Am not making any sense. Am going to sleep now.

2.45AM: Am going mad. Have just had most terrible, wonderful dream; terrible because am feeling guilty about how wonderful it made me feel. Shit! Why am I always so confused! Am going to write this down, because if it was real—but it wasn't. It was only a dream. Still, I want to remember.  
I was sitting alone in the bedroom, and the house was quiet, which should have been the first thing to clue me into the fact that I was dreaming. With four children running round like hoodlums, I can't remember the last time this house was anything but a bloody racket. Anyway, there I was, just thumbing through a book, probably savoring the silence, when my mobile rang.  
"Hello?" All I heard was static. "Hello?"  
"Bridget?"  
I gasped. "Who is this?" I knew who it was, of course; only one voice could tug that painfully on my heartstrings.  
"Bridget, it's me."  
"Who are you? Why are you doing this to me? What do you want?"  
"Sh. Bridget, it's all right."  
"Mark?"  
"Yes."  
"Mark, is it…really you?"  
"Of course it's me." "But you're—"  
"Dead. Yes, I know. You hardly need to remind me of that fact."  
I giggled in spite of myself. "But Mark, this is—I don't understand. How are you—how can you be…talking to me?"  
"It doesn't matter. Listen, we haven't got much time. I just…wanted to speak to you, it being Valentine's Day and all."  
"Oh, Mark, I miss you so much."  
"I know, darling," he said gently.  
"And the children—they haven't forgotten you. I promise. They're so beautiful. Billy looks more like you every day, and Scott—" I hesitated. "He's…he takes good care of them. He loves them. Not that you—I mean—shit, that sounded terrible. Mark, I'm sorry."  
"Of course it didn't. They deserve to have a father who can love them the way they need to be loved right now."  
"You loved them, Mark!" I protested, tears springing to my eyes. I didn't bother wiping them away; there was no one to see.  
"Of course I did. I still do. Nothing will change that."  
"Scott is a good man."  
"Naturally. After me, you would hardly have been expected to settle for mediocrity."  
"If you were in Heaven, they might be downgrading your status soon," I teased. "Isn't pride a sin?"  
"So is false humility," replied Mark.  
"I love Scott," I admitted, somewhat apologetically.  
"I know you do," said Mark. "And you might love him more if you'd stop feeling so guilty about it."  
"How do you—"  
"How do I know you're feeling guilty?" he chuckled. "I know quite a lot of things. It's one of the benefits of being where I am."  
"Do you—can you see us?"  
"Yes."  
"Do you miss us?"  
"As much as it's possible to miss anyone in a place where there's no sadness."  
"Oh, Mark."  
"Bridget, it's time to go."  
"No, Mark, I—don't. Please don't go."  
"Hush, sweetheart. It's all right. Give Billy and Mabel a kiss from me."  
"I will."  
"And Bridget?"  
"Yes?"  
"I love you."  
"I love you too, Mark."  
When I woke, I felt Scott lying there beside me, and I felt so glad that he was there, and so guilty for wishing it was Mark, and I started to cry. Scott turned over and pulled me close, murmuring words I couldn't understand into my hair before dropping back to sleep. Now I'm just lying here in the dark, holding the photograph of Mark that I always keep on the bedside table, wishing he could speak to me again.

11.45PM: I'm the most worthless, ungrateful human being on the entire planet, and all the luckier that anyone could even think of loving me because of it. Scott seemed not to have remembered half-waking in the middle of the night to find me crying, but he did seem to recognize that something had upset me. I tried blaming it on that time of the month, but Scott not-so-nicely pointed out that I'm post-menopausal. I thought seriously of punching him for that, but as it was Valentine's Day, and he'd promised we would do something special to celebrate our first one together, I thought I had better not.  
The children were all packed off to sleepovers, and Scott and I went for a lovely dinner. It might have been perfect, but I kept thinking of Mark and about my dream. We had originally planned to make a night of it and go to the pictures, but then decided we might do well to take advantage of the empty house. It was just as well, as I expect I wouldn't have been able to concentrate anyway.  
When we arrived home, Scott surprised me with a bottle of champagne and a box of chocolate-covered strawberries. After I leaned in to kiss him, he took my face in his hands and gazed intently at me.  
"Bridget, are you all right?"  
I hesitated. "Why wouldn't I be?"  
"I don't know, but that's the first time I've seen you in close proximity to anything chocolate and not directly pounce on it." To satisfy him, I reached for a strawberry and popped it into my mouth.  
"There. Happy?"  
"No. Bridget, what's the matter?"  
"Nothing," I insisted.  
Scott sighed. "If you're going to lie to me, I would at least advise you to do a more convincing job of it."  
"I'm not lying," I protested. "It's just, well," I paused. "The thing is—" and I was crying, blubbering out the whole ridiculous story between sniffles. I told him everything—about wanting our first Valentine's Day to be special, about missing Mark, about the dream, about how guilty I felt about everything. "I'm sorry," I mumbled, lowering my gaze. Then I felt Scott's arms around me, pulling me to his chest.  
"Oh, Bridget," he whispered, kissing my hair. "Why didn't you tell me?"  
"I d-d-didn't want to. It d-d-didn't seem f-fair," I hiccupped. "Talking about Mark like that, today, of all days."  
"It's only natural," Scott said gently.  
"I know, but it's n-not fair…to you. I mean, I l-l-love you, and I d-didn't want you to think I didn't and…I just thought…mentioning Mark—" I felt Scott loosen his hold on me, and when I looked up, his eyes were full of sadness.  
"Bridget, when have I ever held that against you?"  
"You haven't. I just—see? I knew you'd be upset." He folded his arms and gazed silently at me, and that stern, appraising look in his eyes reminded me so strongly of Mark that I began to cry again.  
"I wasn't upset," Scott said finally. "But I am now. Bridget, I know how difficult these last few years have been for you. I know what we have can never come close to what you had with Mark—"  
"Scott, it isn't that—" I began.  
"Just listen to me," he interrupted. "I can't expect to compete with Mark. He was your husband. He was the father of your children. All I can expect to do is make your life a bit less lonely."  
"And you have," I whispered. "And not just for me. Billy and Mabel love you too. You've been a wonderful father. I don't know if I've mentioned that enough."  
Scott shrugged. "I do my best."  
"For Mabel especially. She doesn't really remember Mark, and, well, I don't mean you're a better father, because Mark did love her—you have no idea how much—but, well, you're…you're the father he would have been to her if he'd had the opportunity."  
Scott smiled. "Given everything you've told me about Mark, that's quite a complement."  
"I love you," I said, wrapping my arms around him.  
"I love you too."  
"And I'm sorry," I added.  
"Don't be."  
"Well, I'd still like to make it up to you," I said.  
"Hmm, how do you propose doing that?" Instead of answering, I began unbuttoning his shirt.  
The rest of the night was, in a word, shagtastic. If this is the result of an empty house, am seriously considering disregarding Mark's wishes and packing the children off to boarding school. And we did finish the chocolate-covered strawberries, but their part in the story is, well, another story. Lying in bed now, occasionally sneaking looks over at Scott while he sleeps, hoping perhaps he'll wake up and we'll have another glorious shag. Being very surreptitious though—previous experience indicates that thought-vibes do, in fact, interrupt sleep patterns, and really have no desire to disturb Scott's rest—unless, of course, I can make it worth his while. It's strange; the moonlight filtering in through a chink in the curtain keeps falling across the picture of Mark on the bedside table; it's probably a trick of the light, but if I tilt my head a certain way, the moon shines on his face in such a way that he almost appears to be winking at me. Right. Alcohol making me v. sleepy. Goodnight!

The End


End file.
